


In War, Victory

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It means a lot to you,” Zevran said.</p>
<p>“It does,” Alistair agreed. </p>
<p>“Not just the tattoo, but being a Grey Warden,” Zevran said. “Sometimes you think it’s all you can do. Sometimes you think it’s all you are, yes?”</p>
<p>A shiver ran up Alistair’s spine. He blamed it on the chill entering the tent through the flap, even though he had noted earlier how hot it was inside. He couldn’t think it had anything to do with Zevran’s words, because that would be admitting that they were true, and he couldn’t handle the implications of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In War, Victory

Alistair winced and bit his bottom lip as the needle pressed down against his skin. It wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever felt, of course, but it was uncomfortable, and he felt dangerously exposed with his chest and back bare and Zevran’s warm hand steady on his shoulder. What would he do if they were ambushed? He didn’t have enough time to grab his armor and weapon if they were besieged by Darkspawn or Loghain’s soldiers; but Zevran assured him they were perfectly safe at camp, and his hand did feel reassuring against Alistair’s skin, in direct contrast to the needle that pricked him.

It felt oppressively hot in Zevran’s tent, most likely because of the lantern that burned and the body heat of two bodies in such a small space. Alistair wiped sweat from his forehead and Zevran fussed at him and told him to keep still. Alistair wasn’t used to him being so studious and serious, his banter and silver tongue abandoned for silence and concentration. Really, there wasn’t much to fuss over, Alistair only wanted a small tattoo, to honor his fallen Brothers and Sisters, and as some kind of posthumous gift to Duncan.

Zevran leaned closer, his breath a tickle at the nape of Alistair’s neck. He shifted behind him and Alistair tensed. Not because he expected the man to take advantage of him, but because the sensation -- brief but there -- of Zevran’s breath against his ear startled him. “Nearly done,” Zevran said. “Ah, stop squirming so much! _Maldición_ , this is going to be a disaster if you don’t stay still.”

“Sorry,” Alistair muttered. He wasn’t actually, but it seemed the right thing to say. He smirked when Zevran laughed and shifted his hand from Alistair’s shoulder to the small of his back. For balance, naturally; Alistair was under no delusion that he was desirable or that Zevran would waste his time with him. _There’s the small matter of not wanting him to want me_ , Alistair thought, a bit too late for comfort. Yes, of course... There was that.

“When you’re sorry, you stumble over your words,” Zevran said. “I’ve spent too much time listening to you for you to lie to me, darling.”

The pet name didn’t bother him. Zevran was... _familiar_ with everyone in their little party. Alistair sometimes envied him for his ease and charm, but then he remembered that Zevran had been trained to assassinate people as well as charm their pants off, and he felt slightly better that he remained awkward and unskilled. Truthfully, Zevran could have sweet-talked his way out of any situation, and there was no logical reason he had stuck with the Warden as long as he had, other than genuine affection for them, or perhaps the belief that the Blight needed to be stopped.

Alistair was tempted to believe the former. Zevran had no interest in the Blight or Ferelden, as far as Alistair could tell. He seemed far too preoccupied with daydreaming and telling stories and flirting with everyone within a ten foot radius to spare much thought towards the Blight and its myriad of problems and devastations. 

Perhaps he was being unfair, but Alistair didn’t care much either way. Zevran was there, and whatever his reasons, they were irrelevant. He was there fighting for a home that wasn’t his own, while people like Loghain played at political intrigue and let their home suffer and die around them.

“There,” Zevran said. “All done.”

Alistair wanted to see the tattoo, but he moved slowly and carefully. His shoulder was sore where Zevran had placed that marking, and he couldn’t fly about with his usual vigor. Probably not the wisest place to get a tattoo considering Zevran had marked his shield arm, but... hindsight being what it was, there was nothing Alistair could do. 

A griffon reared majestically, its wings spread and its talons curled viciously; it seemed to grip his shoulder as if perched for flight, beak open and eyes violent. The motto encircled the beast, the motto that Alistair had once recited what felt like a lifetime before, with a little boy’s excitement and a little boy’s heart knocking against his ribcage. He felt none of that excitement now, none of that adulation and strong faith and brave, foolish hope. He felt old, and tired, and terribly, horrifically _small._

Still, his lips curved with a smile when he read the words; a wistful smile that made him look years older than he was. 

_In war, victory._  
In peace, vigilance.  
In death, sacrifice. 

He wondered if Duncan had recited the ancient words when he’d stood beside Cailan at Ostagar. And more than that, Alistair wondered if the man had felt the excited drum of his heart against his ribcage when he’d recited them years before. He wondered if Duncan had ever been so young and foolish, and he supposed he had. 

“There you go again,” Zevran said. “Frowning and pouting. You’re too pretty for all of that. Now, tell me you like it.”

Alistair laughed. He wasn’t quite sure what else to do. Despite his hesitation and his dismal, dreary thoughts, he _did_ like the tattoo. It was equal parts inspiring and ferocious, and proved to be an intimidating stain on his skin. 

“I like it,” Alistair said. “Thank you.”

“Good, good,” Zevran murmured. “I must say it’s very striking, if I might compliment my own work.”

“That doesn’t seem like you,” Alistair said, dryly. “You’ve always been so modest. We really wouldn’t want you getting a swelled head.”

“No, never,” Zevran said. “My pride is only temporary, friend, I assure you.”

Zevran’s eyes drifted down. At first, Alistair thought he was giving his body a lecherous look, seeing as he was sitting half naked in his tent, but Zevran’s stare was trained on his tattoo. Alistair saw his fingers twitch, and his brows knotted. He wanted to touch the ink, move his fingertips over the stain and raised skin. Amazingly, his better judgment prevailed and he kept his hands to himself.

“It means a lot to you,” Zevran said.

“It does,” Alistair agreed. 

“Not just the tattoo, but being a Grey Warden,” Zevran said. “Sometimes you think it’s all you _can_ do. Sometimes you think it’s all you _are_ , yes?”

A shiver ran up Alistair’s spine. He blamed it on the chill entering the tent through the flap, even though he had noted earlier how hot it was inside. He couldn’t think it had anything to do with Zevran’s words, because that would be admitting that they were _true_ , and he couldn’t handle the implications of that. He had never enjoyed being naked, physically or emotionally, and that was exactly how Zevran made him feel; like he was bared, torn open and _exposed._ The sensation was strangely lovely, but also strangely frightening.

“Thank you for... Uh, for the tattoo,” Alistair muttered. “I’ll just... Yes, see myself out now. Thank you again.”

“You’re very strange,” Zevran said. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, yet when someone mentions they can see it, you want to run and hide. Has anyone ever told you that you are a very intriguing man, Alistair?”

“Once or twice,” Alistair said. “I really do need to be going now. Now, yes. Right now.”

Zevran watched him leave with his sultry, half-lidded eyes. Maker’s breath, but sometimes he hated the elf!

****

The genlock screeched, a horrendous sound that bored through Alistair’s skull like a nail. He could hardly see through the sweat and blood in his eyes, and his shield arm ached so fiercely that he could afford himself only the most meager protection. Still, he swung and caught the darkspawn in the chest with his longsword, slicing the monster open and driving it back. Alistair’s shield connected with its face, sending it sprawling backwards where it flailed and hissed and screeched until he drove his sword through its throat. 

He fell back, panting, sheathing his sword and wiping sweat from his forehead. Blood dripped down his cheek, his own or from the darkspawn, he didn’t know, nor did he care. It felt like ages since they’d stumbled upon them on the countryside surrounding Denerim. Mahariel had said it was their chance to ambush the creatures for once in their miserable time as Grey Wardens, and she’d been right. Unfortunately, the ambush had proven ineffective, as the darkspawn could sense them.

“I’m the _junior_ Warden,” Mahariel said, not even giving Alistair a chance to chastise her for her impetuous nature. “You shouldn’t be listening to me.”

She had a point, and he couldn’t, in good conscience, argue with her. He should have been leading them, but he didn’t have the sense for it, nor the confidence. Mahariel had proven to be a capable leader, despite her impatience and bloodlust. The others responded to her leadership better than they would to his own; Alistair was under no delusion that anyone in their right mind would follow him.

“We should return to camp,” Alistair said. “Before you have another bright idea.”

“Where’s that good humor, Prince?” Mahariel asked. She smirked, so as to soften the word, but it still hurt, a bitter knife that found a bitter target. 

“I must’ve lost it,” Alistair said. “Along with my sense and about two litres of blood. Let’s go.”

The walk back to camp was miserable. He ached all over, dragged his feet behind him, and -- just to show the Maker’s good humour, Alistair supposed -- it started to rain before they even reached the top of the hill they’d descended from. Mahariel didn’t seem to mind, she walked with a strange kind of determination, her shoulders squared and her head bent forward as though she was walking to meet some kind of grand destiny instead of returning to camp to clean the blood and rainwater out of her boots. _Must be a Dalish thing_ , Alistair thought. _I imagine the rain and cold are nothing new to her._

The miseries of nature were nothing to a child of the Dales, but to Alistair they were far more troublesome. He wished for the sun to come from behind the clouds, he wished for the rain to stop, for the ache in his shoulders and thighs and feet to stop, for the whole damned _Blight_ to stop, if he were making bold wishes.

Zevran bounded along beside him, chatty and unaffected by the weather. He had some Dalish blood himself, if his stories could be believed, but that wasn’t the reason he remained so sunshiny in dreary weather; it was simply his nature.

“How does it feel?” Zevran asked. “The tattoo, I mean. I can tell by the look on your face how everything else feels.”

“Fine,” Alistair said. He wasn’t sure why he was being so brusque with Zevran. The weather and the darkspawn and the whole rotten sum of his luck had soured him obviously. Or else he was feeling sore because of what Zevran had said days earlier. That would have been ridiculous, though, and Alistair didn’t want to believe he was as fragile as all that.

“Good, good,” Zevran murmured. “Ah, have you been keeping it clean?”

“How in the Maker’s name am I supposed to keep the damned thing clean when all we do is march around and slay darkspawn?” Alistair snapped.

“”You seem very aggravated,” Zevran said. “No, don’t bother denying it, I am a master at reading people. You are upset with me.”

“You’re so clever, aren’t you?” Alistair asked. He withered, the fight and the anger going out of him as quickly as they’d come. He had no grievance with Zevran, and no real reason to show him any animosity. He could be quite irritating with his incessant chatter and his silly love of puns and innuendos and his irreverence and his sweet, bedroom eyes---

Sweet bedroom eyes?

No, that wasn’t right. Everything else was fine, that last bit was entirely irrelevant.

“Do you want to know what I think, dear Alistair?”

“No,” Alistair said.

“I think that you are scared of being small and insignificant. There’s nothing wrong with either, though. Better men than you pretend they are significant, that they are stronger and better and more skilled than any other. And what does that get them? Judging from my life in Antiva, ambition only gets you a dagger in the back. There’s no need for it, really. A simple life, with simple pleasures and simple worries, is the best life.”

“Not really an option,” Alistair said. “What am I supposed to do, retire to the mountains and let the Archdemon destroy everything?”

“Ah, a duty that cannot be abandoned,” Zevran said. “I know it well. But you are not the only one suffering this Blight, Alistair. Perhaps you should remember that.”

With that, Zevran moved ahead of him, falling into step beside Mahariel. He made her laugh with such effortless ease, the lines on her brow disappearing. They whispered and giggled like a pair of small children and Alistair was left to trudge along after them with his boots squelching and his body aching and his heart dark.

****

The fire crackled and popped, flame licking slightly at the soles of his boots. Alistair should have damped the flames hours before, but he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to bother. He fiddled with his mother’s amulet, tied around his throat, thumb stroking the engravings and fingers twisting it to catch the firelight. A fancy amulet for a scullery maid to have, but that wasn’t something Alistair wanted to think about. 

He wished he could have been sitting up thinking about the Blight, or of the inhumanity he had seen from people he had once held in high regard. He wished, for a moment, that he could be deep and pensive and brooding -- that he could think of the injustices of the world and reflect on how they had shaped him and defined him.

 

Instead, he thought of what Zevran had said, how he had planted the seeds of doubt and painful self-awareness in him. _You are not the only one suffering this Blight, Alistair_. No, of course he wasn’t, and of course he _knew_ that, but there he was sitting up hours after everyone else had retired to their tents, obsessing over the words. He felt selfish, and conceited, and... Well, every bit of the Royal Bastard he was. 

Zevran didn’t know him. Alistair managed to comfort himself with the idea for a little while, but eventually he realized that Zevran _did_ know him, in an eerily intimate way. Whenever he was around him, Alistair felt that Zevran could see inside of him, that he could see every painful, childish, narcissistic piece of him. It might have been better if he had found judgment in Zevran’s eyes, but the most he ever found was acceptance, patient and ineffably tender.

_Oh, don’t let me turn into an old dog licking my wounds_ , Alistair thought bitterly. _I’d sooner die right now than let that happen_.

It would happen, of course, it always did. One moment you were young and brave, and the next you were an old man with stories of ancient glory with shadows creeping into your eyes. The only comfort Alistair could find was that he would never become an old man thanks to the taint; it proved to be the worst kind of comfort there was. 

Zevran, though, kept dominating his thoughts, as though the rogue had the right to consume him so terribly. There was no reason he should have thought of him; for all of his boasting and prancing about he was surprisingly lackluster, as average as the rest of him. He wasn’t the most handsome man Alistair had seen, nor the most skilled, or charming, or cleverest. But there was _something_ about him that Alistair couldn’t put his finger on... a forthrightness, a steadfastness, an _honesty_ that was lacking in everyone else he’d ever known.

When Zevran spoke to him, he didn’t speak with any kind of ulterior motive. He never wished to steer Alistair to one decision or another, he never wished to turn the conversation so Alistair admitted to things he would rather keep secret, he never twisted his words or clouded his judgment or filled his ear with sweet lies or false promises.

When he spoke, he did so as a friend; curious and open and receptive and strangely, awe-inspiringly _warm_.

Eamon told him: _You have Theirin blood and you will be king._

Mahariel told him: _You’re strong enough to do this. You’re strong enough to lead_.

But Zevran, after looking into his eyes and deep inside of him in a way no one else ever had before, simply told him: _You are small and insignificant and that is okay._

“Princes are often assassinated in Antiva,” Zevran said. Alistair started, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. Zevran had been trained and taught and honed like a fine blade. He knew how to be silent, how to be stealthy, how to make himself all but invisible. Alistair flushed when he met Zevran’s eyes, and scratched the back of his neck. “Yes,” Alistair said. “You’ve mentioned that once or twice.”

“Everything is so grand there,” Zevran continued. He took a seat beside Alistair, pulling his knees up to his chin. He looked very much like a child then, smiling and content and free of all worry and strife. Alistair knew it was an illusion, but it was one he was happy enough to believe. “The rich golden sands and the marble buildings and the people with their freshly oiled leather and divine silks and dark, sinewy bodies. Everything is so extravagant and bloody and wonderful.” He chuckled, kicking at the fire and making the flames leap and sparks fly. “Ah, but that is the truth of all places, yes? There is so much that cannot be seen, so much that clings to the underbelly of a city like a leech. There is darkness there as much as there is here, and everything is held together by blood.”

“I don’t know why you’re telling me all of this,” Alistair said.

“Because you’ve bled, haven’t you? For this place, for every place, really,” Zevran said. “And that is what makes us the same, my dear prince. We bleed and we make others bleed, and it is in the name of a duty that was never our choice.”

Like everything else about the damnable elf, his words left Alistair breathless and reeling. Amazing how one person could reach inside of you and wrap their hand around the one part that caused you the most pain, that reminded you of your own inadequacy, that you thought you’d buried and kept secret from everyone. 

Duncan had been heroic, charging into battle with his sword drawn and his teeth bared. He had embraced death -- not the glory of it, but the _necessity_. And Alistair shrank from it, recessed to being a small child in the dark, scared and overwhelmed. He had never wanted glory or heroism or a noble death; he had only wanted to find a place where he belonged, a place that he could call home, people that he could call his family. The Grey Wardens had given him that, but now everyone was gone and he was a child playing at swords, a child grasping at some ideal of heroism and bravery. 

He had been content to leave those things for stories, to read books about knights slaying dragons and rescuing fair maidens from a crumbling tower. But Duncan had pulled him out into the blood and the fire, and there was no turning back.

“I wish you’d stop,” Alistair whispered. “I wish you’d just... stop.”

“Those words on your arm,” Zevran said. “ _In war, victory; In peace, vigilance; In death, sacrifice._ They _mean_ something to you. And not because an old man told you they should.”

“Oh, well,” Alistair laughed. “They mean that I’ve gotten myself into a right bit of trouble, that’s all. Everyone is looking for me to be some noble hero, and I’m really... Not very good at that.”

“The Blight would have found you if you were still in the Chantry,” Zevran reminded. “You are confusing inaction with safety and it’s rather adorable.”

Alistair blushed. He knew Zevran was waiting for the truth, though Alistair didn’t believe he owed him the truth, and he thought Zevran already knew it. Still, he had reached out when no one else had bothered, he had stood with him when everyone else had stood _around_ him and made decisions for him; so the least Alistair could do was be honest with him.

“They mean that I’m something,” Alistair murmured. “Some _one,_ I guess. More than my blood. I’d never thought I could be someone other than Alistair, bastard son of King Maric and a giant disappointment. But the Wardens gave me purpose. Also the outfit is quite nice. Blue has always been my color.”

“Yes, I agree,” Zevran said. “You look very dashing.”

“I bet you say that to all the bastard prince Grey Wardens,” Alistair said. 

“No, of course not,” Zevran said. “Only the very cute ones.”

Alistair wasn’t sure what the feeling between them was. At times, it seemed hot enough to melt his skin and bones, and at others, it was merely comfortable, familiar, _friendly_ ; the latter was something Alistair had been missing for a very long time, something he craved more than skilled hands and a warm mouth and sultry, half-lidded eyes. To have a friend was to have someone who saw the warring nature inside of you, the mask that you wore and the naked face beneath, and who decided they wanted to stay with you, they wanted to stand with you.

_Getting late,_ Alistair thought. _You aren’t... You can’t be thinking straight._

Of course not. He was overtired, overburdened, overencumbered, over _whelmed_. To believe that he could think straight, that he could untangle the convoluted thread of his thoughts, was worse than ridiculous: it was _dangerous._

He might have said he found him arresting and intriguing, in the best and the worst and the most painful and pleasurable ways.

Instead Alistair said goodnight. 

****

Three nights later, bandits fell on their camp. For once in what felt like years, Alistair was actually asleep. He heard the sounds of fighting and rose quickly, sparing a longing glance towards his armor before rushing outside. His sword felt unnaturally heavy in his hand, and his eyes were blurry and heavy with sleep, but he managed to run one man through as he raised his sword above his head to slice through Morrigan’s unprotected back.

She turned with her teeth bared, but her face relaxed when she saw him. Alistair’s spine crawled. Her unnatural eyes looked at him steadily, and blood and gore was streaked across her pale face. In the moonlight, she was the most beautiful and frightening woman he had ever seen, and he honestly couldn’t look at her. 

Morrigan didn’t thank him. That was fine, he had never needed her thanks. By the time he turned to run off the rest of the bandits, he found them scurrying up the hillside with Mahariel chasing after them like a spirit of vengeance. 

Zevran moved over to him, smiling, cleaning the blood from his blades and arresting Alistair with his too-naked eyes. 

“Afraid you missed all of the fun, darling. I managed to dispatch those ruffians.”

“I suppose the others were of no assistance?” Alistair asked.

Zevran snorted. “ _Hardly_!”

Alistair saw the wound, but he didn’t mention it. Zevran had taken a heavy hit at his side, and without his armor, he might not have survived it. As it were, leather and chainmail had softened the blow enough to make it non-lethal, but the bit of exposed skin Alistair could see was bloody, and he doubted Zevran would be his usual lithe, nimble self for quite some time.

He didn’t mention the wound, but Zevran followed his eyes. He laughed, pressing his fingers against the torn skin. When he drew away his hand, his fingertips were stained dark crimson with blood. Zevran shrugged and wiped his fingers against his trousers. “You should see the one who gave me that wound,” Zevran said. “Ah, he was no match for me. That he managed to hit me at all, though, was quite surprising. Kudos to him. I’ll make sure I send his head and my condolences to his wife if he had one.”

“Zevran---”

“Must have blind-sided me! _Maldicion_ , I can be quite clumsy sometimes,” Zevran said. “I should work on that, no?”

“Stop,” Alistair murmured.

Surprisingly, Zevran stopped. His smile fell, replaced by a wince, and Alistair could hear him breathing heavily. Alistair stepped closer. He wasn’t sure why or what he meant to do. He was no mage, and he had no real experience with treating or bandaging wounds, yet he stepped closer and rested his hand over Zevran’s wound. 

“Ah, he was... going for your tent and I---” Zevran laughed, hectically, his eyes growing cloudy. “I couldn’t let him---”

“Stop,” Alistair whispered. “It’s alright.”

Zevran leaned forward. For a brief moment, Alistair thought the man meant to kiss him, and he didn’t know what to do. Zevran fell against him, however, the full weight of him heavy in Alistair’s arms.

Alistair called for Wynne, grunting as he lifted Zevran and carried him into his tent. Obviously the wound was worse than he’d feared, but he wasn’t sure what he could do for him before Wynne arrived. Alistair managed to clean the wound, the best he could in such cramped quarters, and attach a fresh bandage that was quickly stained with blood. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, pressing the back of his hand to Zevran’s brow; he was burning up, almost too hot under Alistair’s touch, beads of sweat clinging to his temples.

Wynne arrived and ordered him out. Alistair waited outside of the tent with his sword laid across his lap, his fingers fiddling with the hilt absently and nervously. He had no reason to be so tangled up over Zevran. When they’d first encountered him out on the road, Alistair had been of a sound mind; he had wanted to kill the man rather than risk having him carrying out his assassination of Mahariel. Of course, much had happened in the months since, but Zevran was only one man in a land filled with death and destruction. 

Duncan had told him that weighing the life of one man against the life of many was the duty of every Grey Warden. Sacrifices were necessary and difficult decisions had to be made. Sitting around and feeling your entire chest hollowed over the loss of one elf seemed childish and ridiculous when you understood the true risk, the real threat that spread over the land like a plague. But then... Duncan had also showed him that compassion and tenderness were not antiquated ideas; they were alive and well in Ferelden, in the hearts of everyone who strove to be better.

_Difficult decisions must be made, Alistair_ , Duncan had told him. _But they should also be weighed. If I asked you what a single life was worth, what would you tell me?_

Alistair hadn’t had an answer, not then. But as he sat out in the grass with the warm air heavy on his shoulders and Zevran’s blood on his hand, he did.

Everything.

If you decided a single life wasn’t worth protecting, what did that make you? He never wanted to be as cold and calculating as Loghain, so willing to throw aside honor and duty in the name of idealism and some false sense of patriotism. He was young, and perhaps naive, but he had never been stupid. 

When you cast aside the very things that had been your foundation, you toppled; into madness, or into darkness, or even into greatness, it didn’t matter. You fell away from everything you had once been, and only ghosts and shadows remained.

“A single life is worth everything,” Alistair said.

He would weigh it against the world.

****

An infection, that was what Wynne said. Not a particularly bad one, either, but given their living conditions and their habit of never resting for longer than a few hours at a time, it was difficult to treat. “He’ll be fine with a little rest,” Wynne said. “I’ve done what I can, and I’ll continue to do so, but he’s a stubborn boy and refuses to lie still for long.”

Alistair could hear her exasperation. Most likely Zevran had made another mention of her bosom and his desire to rest his head upon it. Alistair waited until Wynne was gone to laugh and enter the tent. 

His laughter died when he saw Zevran. He might have convinced Wynne that he was as rambunctious and incorrigible as ever, but Alistair saw the truth on his face. He was fatigued, angry with himself, and in a great deal of pain. He shifted when Alistair entered, tried to sit up, and collapsed back with a heavy sigh.

“Woe is me,” Zevran moaned. “What am I to do laid up like some damsel in a tower? Ah, but here is my gallant prince, come to rescue me, _si_?”

“No,” Alistair said. “I’m not all that gallant, and you don’t need any rescuing. Besides, in that scenario, I’d have to kiss you. Isn’t that what the prince does when he scales the tower?”

“Ah, that _would_ be terrible,” Zevran murmured. 

There was a strong desire to kiss him. Alistair could feel his lips tingle in want of it, his stomach flutter in need of it, his heart ache in _craving._ He had never wanted so badly to kiss someone before. He wasn’t startled that he should desire Zevran so terribly, only that he desired _anyone_ so terribly. The Chantry had obviously done a piss poor job of instilling their virtues; or Alistair had simply never taken to the life.

“Terrible, yes,” Alistair said. “I mean, imagine what the others would say. And of course there’s the problem of my being the worst kisser to ever live. Honestly it’s a bunch of teeth and tongue and... I’m not very good at all. I’m being serious! Here I am pouring out my heart to you and you’re laughing.”

“ _Mi amor_ ,” Zevran chuckled. “You do talk quite a bit, don’t you?”

“ _Me_?” Alistair blustered. “This coming from the man who never shuts up for two blighted seconds.”

“I wish you’d kiss me,” Zevran said. He should have been smiling, or laughing, or... something, but he was only looking at Alistair with his pretty gold eyes, and there was nothing salacious there, nothing fiery or suave or debonair; they were soft, and wanting, and horribly, beautifully _young_. “It might shut us both up, at least for a little while.”

He didn’t want to kiss Zevran. Oh, there were plenty of reasons why he _shouldn’t_ have wanted to; the fact that Zevran most likely viewed him as a conquest, a sweet prince to pass a few hours with in a steamy tent like some kind of fantasy. The fact that they had a Blight to contend with and an entire country depending on them. And, last but not least, he had never kissed someone without the breathlessness and giddiness of youth to lessen the reality of it; the reality of teeth and tongue and heat and hearts exposed -- if only for a second, then for a second too long.

None of those things kept him from kissing Zevran, from moving closer and moving his tongue into his mouth. Alistair was only afraid that if he kissed him he might never want to stop, he might kiss him as Ferelden burned and the Archdemon reared over the ashes of his home. He might kiss him as the Blight ravaged everything and the sun rode blood red in the sky.

He might kiss him until he couldn’t breathe and it was the death of him.

Knowing all of that, fully aware that he might taste Zevran’s mouth and never hunger for anything else again, Alistair leaned down and kissed him.

His bottom lip settled firmly under Zevran’s, and he panicked. He knew he was doing something wrong, mucking it up like he always did, but Zevran seemed to enjoy the way he kissed, seemed to like having his mouth open. His tongue pressed against Alistair’s teeth and Alistair opened his mouth, his eyes fluttering and closing when Zevran’s tongue twisted around his own. 

He tasted _good_ , like nothing describable. Sweet and spicy and warm and good. He tasted the way his leather smelled, the way his lips and tongue looked. He tasted the way Alistair thought he would. 

More than that, though, Alistair was only surprised he liked the kiss as much as he did. He melted into it easily, letting Zevran invade his mouth with his tongue and his breath, letting his fingers curl against the nape of his neck. It was only when Zevran’s other hand slid a little lower -- actually a _lot_ lower, edging towards his waistband -- Alistair gripped his wrist and broke the kiss. 

A line of saliva connected their bottom lips before snapping. Alistair licked his lips, flicking his eyes away, feeling that old familiar blush rising, stinging his ears and cheeks. He was a little amazing that he had enough blood to fill his face, considering the strain of his cock against his trousers. 

Zevran looked down and smiled. Not the sweet, tired smile he had worn earlier, but that toothy, predatory smile Alistair was accustomed to. The smile that reminded him Zevran was an assassin, sleek and quick and dangerous. Alistair liked that smile, liked every smile the man wore, liked his face and his hands and his pretty eyes...

“We shouldn’t---”

“No, I’m injured,” Zevran said. “I suppose not.”

“It’s just, I... I’ve never, well... And with you, I just---”

“Do you think I would force you?” Zevran asked. “You don’t owe me an explanation. Ah, when I am better and you are ready, you will let me know, yes?”

“I’ll... Yes,” Alistair murmured. “I think so. Yes. That could--- Yes, that might be alright.”

Zevran laughed, a throaty, strong, good laugh that made Alistair’s chest warm and his stomach fill with butterflies. He had no clue what he was doing when he was so near the man, no clue what he was risking or willing to lose. All he knew was that he wanted him in an aching, primal kind of way that stole his breath and clouded his eyes. He wanted him so badly it was a pain low inside of him, and he couldn’t touch it for fear of making it even worse. 

He wanted to whisper, _You’ll be the death of me as surely as the Blight_ , but he didn’t. Instead, Alistair kissed him again, quick and hot, letting his teeth catch Zevran’s bottom lip, and he asked: “No pressure, huh?”

“No, never,” Zevran purred. “What kind of man do you take me for, love?”

Zevran was many things, and Alistair was under no delusion that most of those things were even good, or justifiable, but he had never been one to force the issue of sex, or make a person feel obligated. He joked of course, and often, but he had proven himself to be a trustworthy man. Aside from all of that, Alistair simply believed that Zevran was his friend; that he cared for him, that he loved him in whatever way an assassin could love someone.

Love and trust went hand in hand, and Alistair wasn’t sure Zevran knew how to trust. He had been raised in shadows with dark whispers and blood on his hands. How could he expect him to know how to open himself up and let someone inside of him? To ask him to do so was to ask him to stop being who he was, who he had been trained and molded and conditioned to be. To do so was to spit on the suffering he had gone through -- Alistair had no doubt, despite Zevran’s irreverence and supposed fondness for the act of killing itself, that he had suffered tremendously -- and to make light of the sacrifices he had made.

Still... Alistair wanted him to open himself up. He wanted to see the bleeding, jagged, fragile edges of him and move against them. He wanted to fit between his ribs and curve against his heart and slide over the secret places that shaped him and defined him and hurt him.

Alistair kissed him again. He was addicted to his mouth, to the shape of his teeth and the curl of his tongue and the blessed, cursed _heat_ of him. If there was a way for him to keep kissing Zevran until the end of time, Alistair would have gladly done it; he would have made deals with a dozen different demons and a thousand different spirits if he could keep slipping into that sweet heat between Zevran’s teeth. As it were, though, Alistair was forced to pull away and move out of the tent into the night.

He sat by the fire with his face flushed and his dick hard and his hands formed into fists. Once again he was a young boy, halted by some ridiculous sense of duty or virtue that he had only never even ascribed to. The Chantry was a load of bollocks, and Alistair had never believed otherwise. The Maker was all well and good, he supposed. He could imagine a divine being creating the world and punishing the wicked and rewarding the good; but he had never believed there was wickedness in sex, or wickedness in learning the shape of someone’s body and the smell of their sweat and the taste of their mouth. The Chantry -- not the Maker Himself -- had made it wicked, and Alistair honestly had no energy or care left what the Faithful believed.

There was a fire inside of him, and Zevran was a warm wind that stirred the flames. If he couldn’t have him... He would burn alive, and there would be nothing left but ashes. 

Funny... Whether he had Zevran or not, Alistair believed his fate would be the same. Reduced to ashes, left for the wind to scatter. 

****

“You and the elf are getting close.”

Alistair looked up at Sten, more startled by the fact that he’d chosen to speak to him at all than what he’d actually _said._

They were heading into Orzammar. It wasn’t exactly the best time to discuss his romantic life. But Sten, apparently, had no intention of discussing anything. He glanced down at Alistair, shrugged, and moved on. 

“He is a pleasant enough man,” Sten said. “A skilled fighter; quick and strong. But he will betray you, as surely as he will betray her.” Sten nodded towards Mahariel, and after that, he let the subject stand as it was. He had no intention of steering Alistair away from Zevran. The Qun had nothing to say on matters of the heart, after all, and Sten was certainly not so stern a man that he had resisted his own urges his entire life. 

Wynne, on the other hand, had plenty to say on the topic. Alistair listened to her lecture him on the dangers of entanglement, the dangers of a Grey Warden fraternizing with a comrade while they marched against the Blight. “Ask yourself what you would do if it came down to a decision between saving this land and saving the person you love,” Wynne said. “Would you do what is right? Would you be able to separate your heart from your head?”

Alistair wanted to tell her his cock was also tangled up in the equation, but he couldn’t. He only smiled and nodded and thanked her for her advice. 

But she was wrong.

Duncan had asked him what the weight of one life truly was when measured against the rest of the world. He had asked not because he expected Alistair to tell him the weight of the world was far heavier, or that one life was nothing compared to the lives of thousands, of _hundreds_ of thousands; he had asked simply because he’d been curious, and because he’d already known Alistair’s heart better than Alistair did. 

He was tender. Too tender, most likely, if there was such a thing as being too soft, too yielding, too caring. Duncan had seen that in him, and he had accepted it; he had never encouraged Alistair to harden himself for the sake of duty, or to close his heart in the name of survival. He had tempered the strength Alistair already had inside of him, and he had let him be. Because he had understood the weight of all things rested on Alistair’s shoulders and heart, bearing down on his rib-cage until everything collapsed, and there was simply no getting around that.

` The weight of a single life was the weight of the entire world, and Alistair couldn’t shrug it off, he couldn’t listen to faulty logic and cruel math and not flinch when he was reminded war was sometimes a necessary evil. It was why he would never be a good King -- at best he felt he might make a mediocre -- but it was also why he would always be a good _man_.

Zevran had healed quickly, and better than Wynne had expected. He moved with the agile grace of a cat as they entered Orzammar, his eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, his fingers poised over the hilt of his dagger. Alistair admired the shape of him, the coiled tension in his muscles, the spring of his step, the light deftness of his fingers. He admired the way he looked, too; hair pulled up into a loose bun and braids tumbling down in front of his ears. “I do not want the dust and the dirt in my hair,” he had told Alistair. It was one vanity they shared.

They found an inn, reasonably priced, by the entrance to Dust Town. The smell of the place was _wrong_ ; dirt and sweat and desperation. Alistair didn’t care for it at all, and he imagined the dwarves that were forced to live there cared for it less so. It seemed an injustice to him, but it was on too grand of a scale -- mired in far too much tradition -- for him to do more than lament their suffering. 

There was a few hours until they were permitted to enter the Diamond Quarter and seek out whomever was in charge after King Aeducan’s death, and they all took the rare reprieve to bathe and rest. Alistair was naked with his tub half-filled with water when someone knocked at his door. He cursed and wrapped linen around his waist -- thin and sheer and oddly soft against all of the worst and best places -- and answered the door with a flush on his chest and face.

Zevran smiled at him, his eyes moving slowly up and down Alistair’s body. Alistair shifted, not sure if he should be embarrassed or thrilled. His body decided the latter, and his blood flowed south. 

“May I come in?” Zevran asked. “Isn’t it proper to invite a guest inside?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alistair said. “I was raised in a stable, remember? With the dogs and the horses. And I’m fairly sure it’s not at all proper for a guest to arrive when someone is about to bathe.”

“Nonsense,” Zevran said. He moved past Alistair with a chuckle. “Only the very best guests arrive when one is about to bathe. That way all of those hard to reach places can be cleaned thoroughly. I wouldn’t want you to miss a spot, _mi amor._ ”

“You’ve come to get me into bed,” Alistair said. He sighed and closed the door. “You’re very predictable.”

“I’ve no interest in bed,” Zevran laughed. “Come here to me.”

Alistair walked to where Zevran stood, beside the metal basin half-filled with warm, sudsy water. Zevran’s hands rested against Alistair’s hips. He turned his face up, his eyes questioning, his lips slightly parted. Alistair sighed again, this time in pleasure, in submission, in painful _want_ of him. He nodded, closed his eyes, felt the linen bunched around his waist slip away and Zevran’s warm palms against his naked skin.

“What... Ah, what do you... I mean, are we---”

Zevran kissed Alistair’s chest, lips hot and slightly wet, soft against his nipple. His fingertips passed briefly over the head of Alistair’s cock, which twitched and rose higher against his belly. Maker’s breath, he felt like he might explode if Zevran didn’t do _something_.

“In the tub,” Zevran said. Alistair stepped into the water and sat down, feeling embarrassed and excited and nervous and _desperate_. 

Zevran knelt behind him, grabbing the cloth Alistair had gotten to wash himelf with and dunking it into the soapy water. He washed his shoulders, slowly, with his lips and his breath against Alistair’s ear. Alistair leaned back, melting into the water, melting under Zevran’s hands and beneath his breath. The embarrassment, for a wonder, dimmed. He was only... content, warm down to his toes. 

“The thing you seem to believe about me is that I am insatiable,” Zevran whispered. “But let me tell you a secret, darling. I have gotten my fill before. I have been pleasured and taken to heights you will never take me. If I desired, I could bed a dozen different people this very night, and it would satisfy me. You will never be the most desirable, the sexiest or the most sensual or even the most handsome man I will meet.”

“This is meant to flatter me,” Alistair reminded him. “You’re making me feel like a tit.”

Zevran laughed, the cloth dipping back into the water before he scrubbed and caressed over Alistair’s chest. “I mean to say that if I desired sex, I could find it most anywhere. I have never had trouble finding someone to warm my bed or my cock. And you are certainly no beast of a lover that will curl my toes or leave me breathless.”

“I’m still waiting for the part where you say ‘but’,” Alistair said.

“ _However,_ ” Zevran said, laughing when Alistair tipped his head back to scowl at him. He left a small, quick kiss on the end of his nose before continuing. “You have proven to be an impossible man to untangle myself from. I think of you often, in ways I do not think of other people. I do not think of your thighs or the shape of your body or the way your teeth will catch your lips when I fuck you. I think of you. I think of you and I wonder what you have done to me.”

“You make it sound like you’ve never felt this way before,” Alistair said. “I find it hard to imagine you’ve never... loved someone? Cared for them?”

“I have,” Zevran said. “But never _you_.”

“Oh, I’m not much,” Alistair murmured. “You said that yourself.”

“Don’t pout,” Zevran said. “It doesn’t look good on you. What I said was that you will never be the best lover, or the most handsome, or the most charming. But you _are_ that one that I’ve come to, the one that I can’t get out of my blood. Taliesen used to warn me that my love for pretty things would be the end of me, and it seems he was right. You are a poison inside of me, and you are killing me, and I love you.”

Alistair might have asked him to say it again, to remind him of why he loved him or how he possibly could. But he didn’t have the heart to make light of Zevran’s confession. It had pained him to drag such a thing out of himself, to carve a hole in his chest large enough for Alistair’s big, clumsy hand to get inside of. He trusted himself, -- vitals and pressure points and pulse and every visceral, fragile thing he was made of -- to Alistair, and he was not so inexperienced that he would be clumsy with such things.

“You’re dirty,” Alistair whispered. He turned to brush his lips against Zevran’s mouth, trailing his hand down the curve of his jaw and gripping the nape of his neck with wet fingers. “There’s room enough for two. We might need to get a bit close, but---”

“Oh,” Zevran purred. “Is that right?”

Zevran undressed quickly. He stepped into the water slowly, sitting down and settling back against Alistair’s chest. It was a tight fit, to be sure, but Alistair had no complaints about their closeness. He pressed kisses against Zevran’s neck and shoulders, making small noises of pleasure and frustration when Zevran pressed back and placed friction on Alistair’s cock. 

Alistair wrapped his arms around Zevran’s waist and buried his face against his throat, breathing in the scent of him, the overwhelming smell of sweat and dirt and spice and leather. 

“You drive me mad,” Alistair whispered.

Zevran laughed; that throaty laugh that warmed Alistair’s belly and sent electric fire through his veins. “Ah, good,” Zevran purred. He turned to face Alistair, slipping his thighs over Alistair’s hips and his arms over his shoulders. “Then we are mad together.”

Alistair kissed him, hard and deep, not bothering to trace the shape of his teeth or form any lasting memory of his full, warm lips. He wanted to invade him, a conquering force against an unconquerable will. He wanted to dig inside of him, deep enough for Zevran to feel him, to know he was sharing his body and the hollow of his chest. Alistair gripped him under the water, fingers curling into Zevran’s ass, lips moving from his bruised mouth to his throat; he wanted to leave it blemished, dark with the shape of his teeth.

Zevran had told him, _You are confusing inaction with safety_. He had told him, _We bleed and we make others bleed in the name of a duty that was never our choice._

But more importantly, Zevran had told him, _You are afraid of being small and insignificant_. And it was true, it had always been true, and it took to reason it always _would_ be. He did not wish for obscurity or peace; what he wanted was to do what he knew. To fight, to protect, to save and serve. If he thought of it on such a grand scale -- saving and serving and protecting all of Ferelden, all of Thedas -- he might’ve gone mad. 

Instead, he thought of Zevran. He thought of protecting and serving and saving _him_ , and he could bear it. 

He had never been small and insignificant, even when he had been, and if that made a lick of sense, Alistair couldn’t see how.

None of that mattered when Zevran gripped his hair and pulled his head back and bathed his throat in kisses and hot breath and hotter swipes of his tongue. Nothing mattered but the solidity of him, the startling, shocking _reality_ of him that made Alistair’s head swim and his pulse quicken. 

“Do it, then,” Alistair whispered. “Do it.”

Not the most romantic thing to say, but Zevran needed no romantics and Alistair didn’t have the patience for them. He curled his hands against Zevran’s shoulder-blades and sighed when Zevran gripped his cock and pushed him inside.

Zevran whispered something, something needful and plaintive and desperate. _I love you, I want you, I need you. Fuck me_. Something that made Alistair’s skin flush with heat and his stomach flutter. If he could only find a rhythm... It was difficult between Zevran’s thighs, lost in the skin of his throat, so close to his pulse he could feel it throb against his lips. Alistair was lost in pleasure, and there was nothing he could do but hold on.

Zevran was right; he would never be the best lover he had ever known, or the most handsome, or the most charming. Alistair would even wager to guess he wouldn’t be the most noble, or the most tender-hearted.

But no one would love Zevran the way he did. No one would even come close. It was something they knew without speaking it aloud, and something they understood without giving it much consideration. That didn’t mean, of course, that Alistair believed Zevran would settle with him forever, that he would remain when the Blight was over and live with him in some simple home on some simple countryside.

What mattered was he was there, for a moment or a lifetime, _he was there._ Alistair was inside of him, and in nearly every way, Zevran was inside of _him_ , and _he was there._

“You are no beast,” Zevran said, breathlessly, when they were through and the water was growing cold. His breath rushed against Alistair’s throat, his fingertips curled against his hips under the water. “But you could be, with a little training.” Zevran chuckled, tiredly, nudging his face a bit closer, letting his lips rub over the stubble on Alistair’s jaw. “It would be my pleasure, really.”

Alistair kissed his temple, tracing his fingers from the small of Zevran’s back and up his spine. “I’ve always been especially fond of education,” Alistair said. “I’ll commit myself to my studies.”

Zevran chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure.”

****

A black sky filled with thunder was all Alistair could see. The beast had knocked him flat on his back, taken the wind from him. He heard Mahariel growling, heard the clatter of steel against scales that might as well have been made of the same. He could hear the drums, the screeching of the ‘spawn, the roar of the Archdemon, the screams of the dying, the silence of the dead.

Alistair got to his feet unsteadily, his sword arm heavy, his shield arm completely useless. The armor had been torn completely from the arm and there was a deep gash over his shoulder. Terrible luck, that; the gash was over the tattoo Zevran had given him what seemed a lifetime before. 

 

He looked around the battlefield, seeing the bodies of the army they had built, the devastation and the destruction too great for him to even process. Alistair felt the brunt of it under his ribs, his heart heavier than his sword arm; heavier and _hardened_. Yet he was one man against a horde, and there was nothing he could do. Duncan had died in the same manner, against an enemy he had anticipated and still had under prepared for. An enemy that had destroyed him and would now destroy Alistair. 

_In war, victory; In peace, vigilance; In death, sacrifice_.

_Those words mean something to you. And not because an old man told you they should._..

Alistair gripped his sword as best he could and turned towards the rearing dragon, bracing against the flap of its wings, the awful roar from its throat that shook the tower and rumbled low in the earth. Mahariel had scaled it somehow, and Alistair caught sight of her as she climbed the Archdemon’s neck. Her teeth were gritted, her face covered in blood and dirt, her armor falling apart, her hair whipping around her face clumped with blood. 

She was prepared to die. Not because of her duty to the Wardens, but because of her duty to her people, to her home, to _them_. To the people who had followed her into hell and stood with her when the sky burned and the land slipped into the sea.

His sword was gripped tighter, and he ran to where she was. He cared little for who he shoved out of his way, who or what he knocked to the ground. He only wanted to get to where she was, to get to where the horrible pulse of the Archdemon beat under her steel. 

He only wanted it to be over.

“Alistair!”

He looked and found Zevran, running towards him. There was no time to meet him, no time to tell him what he wanted to tell him. There was no time, and Alistair ran for the dragon. It reeled as Mahariel stabbed her blade into its throat, its massive head crashing against the tower roof, sending stone and dust into the air. 

Alistair screamed; what he didn’t know. Perhaps he screamed something noble for the Wardens, an oath or a promise. Perhaps he screamed for all of them. For Leliana with her songs and mysteries and stories that echoed through the spaces between their ribs that longed for fantasy and hope. For Sten and his absolution, his need to wipe the blood of the innocent from his hands, to answer his Arishok’s question. For Wynne who had never breathed free, who had lived in stone and cold and submission. For Shale, who had made the ultimate sacrifice, who had given their body to the Anvil and their life and ambition to the Stone. 

For Mahariel, the best of them, who had left her home with the taint already in her blood. Who had stood for them when they had been unable to stand for themselves.

Even for Morrigan, who had never wavered, who had never run. Who had stood up to the monster that called itself her mother and who had refused to be a vessel for her dangerous poison. 

For Zevran...

Alistair found him again, rushing after him, his hand reaching out like he meant to stop him, like he ever _could_. The duty that could not be forsworn... Alistair hadn’t understood the implications of that, the horrible weight of it, when he’d said the words what seemed an eternity before. Now he understood, now he realized the weight, the absolute crushing _weight_. Now he knew that there was no turning away, there was no running or hiding, there was nothing but his steel and the dragon’s skull.

If he shouted that he loved him, he doubted Zevran would have heard him. He doubted Zevran would have understood the truth of those words. He doubted he would feel the impact, that it would shake his ribs and scar his heart that way he’d shaken and scarred Alistair. 

Still, he whispered the words as he drove his blade into the dragon’s skull. He and Mahariel struck at once, their blades disappearing, their eyes meeting through the blinding light and the twisting shadow.

_Done_ , they both thought, smiling at each other with exhaustion and relief and overwhelming pity.

The darkness swept them away.

****

“You are impossible to kill,” Zevran said. 

Alistair had no idea where he was, or how he was alive, and it didn’t matter. Zevran was there, leaning over him, and Alistair sighed his name and felt Zevran’s fingers twine through his own.

“Mahariel---”

“I’m sorry,” Zevran said. “She... I’m sorry.”

Alistair laughed. Tears built in his eyes and spilled down his face when he blinked. He made no move to wipe them away, though Zevran cleared them with his thumb. 

“I was wrong,” Zevran said.

Alistair felt like he should tease him, but he didn’t have the strength or the heart. “About what?” He asked.

“Everything,” Zevran said. “You are not content to be small, and I never understood that. You are the bravest beast I’ve ever seen.”

Alistair managed a smile, tired and wan and trembling. “I suppose this means I can make love like one now.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Zevran said. “Ah, but I am sure you have the heart of a lion, mi amor, and the brains of a goldfish.”

“This is the part where you tell me you love me,” Alistair said.

“This is the part where I tell you that you are a _fool_ and I love you,” Zevran corrected. 

He hadn’t been fast enough. Mahariel had made the sacrifice. Alistair wanted to feel guilty, to feel overwhelmed by sorrow and hatred for himself and the whole damned Blight. But Mahariel had smiled in that last instant; she had smiled in relief, in victory, and she had smiled _with peace._

_A duty that cannot be forsworn..._

“Alistair,” Zevran murmured. “Please don’t do that again.”

“No,” Alistair said. “Unless another Blight comes along in my lifetime.”

“If it does, let someone else handle the dirty work,” Zevran said. “You can be an old man wishing for former glory.”

“With you?” Alistair asked.

Zevran hesitated. That was okay, Alistair expected him to. It was a bold question, and a bold expectation; but he was feeling rather bold all of a sudden. Like he could hold the world in the palm of his hand.

“Yes,” Zevran said. No smile, no laugh, no glitter in his gold eyes. “With me.”

Alistair squeezed his hand, his thumb slipping over Zevran’s scarred knuckles.

_I have never been small_ , Alistair thought. _I have never been insignificant._

Zevran leaned down and pressed his lips, dry and warm, to Alistair’s brow.

_I have never been loved like this before_ , Alistair thought. It was a good thought, a sweet thought, one he was content to have lead him into darkness.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Alistair slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cipriharald on tumblr. :)
> 
> I actually had too much fun with this one. Alistair and Zevran are two of my favorite characters, and one of my most love ships. There's something about them, something really intimate and tender and affectionate that just appeals to me. <3


End file.
